


karma’s just a different word for bad luck

by Hydra_Trash_Gal



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton-centric, Closeted Character, Domestic Avengers, Illiteracy, Learning Disabilities, Multi, Possibly offensive terms, SHIELD, Self-Esteem Issues, Stony backstory, Team Dynamics, eventually, it has to get worse before it gets better, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-29 10:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydra_Trash_Gal/pseuds/Hydra_Trash_Gal
Summary: Growing up Clint was kept busy trying to survive so scholarly skills where never picked up.Now, as an illiterate adult and a member of the Avengers, that shortfalling is getting harder to hide.Still reeling from the loss of his mentor, Clint finds himself even more alone as his secret is exposed.





	1. Clint Manages, Thank You Very Much

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so, first of all, I am a literate person and I mean no disrespect whatsoever with this fic. The idea just got caught in my head so I finally got it written out! Please heed above warnings and enjoy!
> 
> • please excuse the spacing! I don’t know why there’s extra space between paragraphs •

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint manages just fine...until he kind of doesn’t.

It wasn't like it was a secret. Not really, anyway. Making it out to be a secret would have given it a worth. If it was a secret it would have been a weight that Clint Barton wasn't comfortable carrying around. 

Clint drew another arrow from the quiver propped beside him, eyes set along the shaft as he drew back and released. The arrow arched delicately, the intricate grooves carved into the hollow metal shaft gave the barbed tip a spin and increased momentum to bury into the flesh of targets...or bullseyes seeing as he was at the range, not on a mission.

Clint did not consider it a secret. It simply was. 

End of story; next case, please.

All things considered who even needed to know how to read? It was one of those skills that could easily be replaced by an individual’s own scrappiness, own resourceability and abilities of common deduction and logic. Reading was optional when Clint could, figuratively speaking, read between the lines of common text. He ‘read’ people, he ‘read’ situations, he ‘read’ the wind patterns and every other outside influence that could affect his arrows.

Clint managed just fine before he met Coulson and even now in his absence and surrounded by brilliant people, Clint was doing pretty alright for himself, thank you very much. Jarvis read him messages he got on his StarkPhone and speak-to-text made staying on contact during an era of technology a non issue. As for missions Cap had a habit that annoyed everyone of running through plans bit by bit before they arrived to ensure plans were well understood and to avoid and all possibly deviations (such as, say, Tony showboating). Of course Clint did not mind these reviews in the least. He’d grown to depend on them, no longer having to have Jarvis read them him in that painfully dull English monotone the AI got when reciting text.

It was just another June morning when Clint experienced a hiccup in his well sorted system. They were on their way to clear out an enemy cell of cyber terrorists when Tony interrupted the rundown with an extravagant sigh of his displeasure. Steve immediately turned his attention on the unimpressed genius. 

"I'm sorry, am I boring you?" 

He even used his Captain America tone. Damn, Clint grinned to himself sitting back to watch it unfold.

"We all read the dossiers, Cap." 

Tony had a signature look of annoyance to him that countered was with Steve nodding his head in a not so subtle ‘I don’t give a shit’ way.

"Great. You're supposed to. Anyway, the Widow will be going around the eastern side of building where intel shows there’s only four guards. Hulk will be on standby in case their firepower overwhelms her. Hawkeye will be on the Northern — "

"You're not getting it." Tony cut in significantly more bitter than earlier. "We know the plan, this is redundant."

"If you want to lead the team Tony, go ahead."

Steve was bristling back seconds at Stark who didn’t bat an eye at the intensity of the simmering fury in those American blue eyes. Clint had a funny feeling this was less to do with the perceived redundancy of the plan and more to do with the 'who used the last of my creamer this morning?' incident because the two were secretly bumping uglies and no one was meant to know but it was painfully obvious in Clint’s opinion.

Also, it had been Clint's doing: he meant to steal Tony's because the billionaire never noticed. He had been tired and distracted by something else. He had noticed his coffee tasted funny but caffeine was caffeine.

"I'm just pointing out that it's a waste of everyone's time to go over something we all already know." Tony argued.

Clint, technically, did not know but Steve always told him. Before Coulson always gave the team assignment details on the plane rides over to the drop points for their mission. Clint did his best to ignore the pang in his gut as he thought of crisp suited agent and his warm, unwavering voice of certainty. 

Phil taught Clint how to trust again when he first was recruited. Trick Shot might have taught Clint a majority of his skills when it came to a bow but Phil made him into the successful agent he was today. He would always be thankful for that. 

Clint wasn’t too worried about their tiff until Natasha weighed in. 

"I'm not taking sides," she began, "but Tony is right. Phil used to do the same thing to Clint and I. It used to drive me insane."

Clint was utterly wounded by that and blindsided by the new fear that, maybe, Coulson had known and did it for his sake alone. 

Phil had also completed all his paperwork. He did Natasha's as well but he claimed it was because they had done plenty already so he wanted to help however he could.

Phil had been the best Handler and every little quirk of Coulson's was a precious memory, he thought Natasha felt the same way. He was a bit hurt that Nat would express displeasure in anything he would have done.

Steve exhaled in a laborious way. 

"Fine." 

Captain America didn't sulk, but Rogers certainly was. Clint now felt the bite of panic a bit more. He tried to self soothe as he reviewed the obvious things. His job was always straightforward: draw and release, aim for the baddies — but the northern what? Clint was aware the mission was going down in some desolate place in Ohio and they were bringing the Hulk so that meant there was no danger of civilian interferences but beyond that he may as well have been outsider looking in. That was an issue.

"I like your recaps," Clint offered.

Tony and Natasha gave him a filthy look. 

"Kiss ass.” Tony said.

"Don't be rude Tony." Steve smiled wearily in Clint's direction. "Thank you, Clint. I know I can be overbearing on these missions sometimes. Old habits die hard but I know you're all capable. I'll back off more. I'm probably just cranky because someone used the last of my creamer this morning."

Tony tore his eyes from the StarkPad immediately with a sputter of objection. 

"Get your head out of your Star-Spangled ass, Rogers. I didn't touch your precious Coffee Mate." He shuddered dramatically. "Ugh, I can't believe you even consume that shit."

"I like it. And it seems you do, too."

Steve folded his arms and glowered at Stark. Clint scoured his memory for something, anything, to tell him more about the mission. Tony's lip curled and the tablet was set to the side as he leaned forward to point an accusatory finger at Steve. 

Clint glanced at the screen on habit. When he was a kid they never had things like they had nowadays. 

They had figured out there was something wrong with Clint back when he was just a kid. Thankfully the information had fallen through the cracks of the less than adequate social care system. It was at the of the best foster homes he and Barney had been in when they told him about it. They only stayed for a short time because there were too many kids and too few beds — Barney kept stealing money out of their foster mother’s purse because 'they ain't gon keep us anyway Clint. This is our runnin' 'way money'. 

Clint couldn’t remember her name now, years and so many foster homes and parents later but she had cared enough to look at a letters from the school teacher. The teacher had taken him into a small office and presented him with various tests that he could not complete. 

"All this moving around and no one’s been able to teach you any form of literacy," she had said sounding very upset by this. Clint hadn’t cared much at all, he wanted to go outside with Barney. “You’re too old to be illiterate. They’re gonna put you in some special classes.”

Clint remembered that classroom for the few weeks they remained there. One kid ate glue, another threw a chair out the window. No one taught him to be literate there either. 

From there they went to the orphanage where stealing food and planning a grand escape was far more important than whatever learning was expected of him. It never meant much to him then. Clint still didn’t make much of it. 

Barney always said he was dumb but real lucky that Barney was smart enough for the both of them. Clint couldn't argue with that logic, even now. Just seeing all the text on the tablet screen made his head hurt. The quinjet suddenly felt much smaller. 

"For the last time, I didn't touch it. I'm going to put a goddamn camera in the kitchen from now on so you can't accuse me of shit whenever you finish something and forget about it." 

Tony was absolutely seething as he snatched the tablet back. His thumb brushed it and the top of a photograph appeared that looked a lot like a tactical positioning. Clint could read pictures. 

"Not to mention I offered you some of my creamer and you refused." Tony wouldn’t look at Steve.

"Can I look at that real quick?" Clint asked before Steve could give his typical sharp reply. 

Tony shoved it at him already fired up and preparing for whatever response Steve threw his way. Clint did feel a bit guilty about causing this argument but it was a bit too late to fess up to it now. He took the StarkPad carefully and moved his finger along the screen. The screen moved down, the wall of dense text giving way to more of the image. It was definitely tactical: different colored dots, arrows drawing lines on where they were meant to go, squares with writing on them, and a little key on the bottom that Clint squinted at. 

He could recognize his name. 

C-L-I-N-T B-A-R-T-O-N, the symbols, the letters, meant him. Also sometimes his name was written as H-A-W-K-E-Y-E. 

It was second nature to sneak glances upward, to ensure no one was paying attention to him as he glared down at the screen. It was nonsensical to try and intimidate the text but Clint held onto hope that the words could somehow rise up and make sense. 

All it really was, was a jumble of symbols and punctuation that, yeah, probably meant something but what did it really matter? 

Clint got by just fine. 

"It's not creamer, Tony. It's almond juice and I don't find the idea of drinking it appealing." 

For someone who lived through the Great Depression Steve seemed pretty picky in Clint’s opinion. Maybe it was the super taste buds? Clint had gotten so used to eating whatever he got his paws on that it took him years to remember to taste it. Almond milk wasn't so bad though. However it was easy to tell apart, what with the photographs of the almonds on front of it whenever Clint saw it at the grocery store. 

He did wonder why it placed with the normal milk, though. 

"Christ sakes," Tony threw his hands up. "Whatever. Let it go Cap."

Steve's chin jutted out in a way that suggested he had an arsenal of reasons why he wasn't going to let it go but Natasha spared them all with a sharp, "It's not that big of a deal, guys. I drank it."

Clint almost dropped the tablet as he swung a look at her. He half expected her to be glaring at him, unimpressed he hadn’t admitted he’d done it because she knew everything and surely she knew this. But Natasha assessed the look of outrage with a look of cold unwavering certainty. 

"You did?" Steve finally managed to say, a flush creeping up the collar of his suit. 

"I didn't think I finished it but I may have. I didn’t realize it was such a big deal.” 

Natasha shrugged in a nonchalant manner. Tony looked somewhere between astounded and peeved.

"Well, it-it isn't," Steve started and faltered the flush on his neck growing a bit darker as Tony's eyes went comically wide. 

"Not a big deal?" Tony sounded on the verge of hysteria. "You've been on me about this all day long and you're going to try and say it's not a big deal?"

Clint was getting distracted but he definitely felt guilty now. He squinted down at the tablet. Purple dot — that was him, it had to be. It was beside a circle, close to the big rectangle that he assumed was the building. He set the tablet aside. Simple: stand to the north of the circle and shoot enemies. 

He had stressed over nothing and he'd gotten away with polishing off Cap's creamer.

Things just tended to work out for Clint.

•• •• •• •• 

The debrief was quick, mostly because of a lack of snarky comments on Tony's part. Save for a few bumps and bruises it had been a relatively simple mission. No casualties, everyone detained and brought to Shield headquarters to be processed and interrogated. 

When Steve finally adjourned the meeting Bruce — who hadn't been needed so he hung back on the plane — went off to the lab with Tony, Natasha apologized to Steve who again insisted it wasn't the creamer 'it was the principle, but it doesn't have anything to do with you Natasha' which sorta sounded like a big 'fuck you' to Stark. Tony clearly heard it and closed the door with far more force than was necessary. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Clint couldn’t help but tease.

Steve began to sputter in poorly feigned confusion and Clint gave him a solemn pat on the shoulder and went to his floor. 

Clint had Phil to thank for all of this, Phil had saved his life and Clint hadn't been able to do the same. It had been hard to deal with, especially coming back from being under Loki's control — and was still hard to deal with now, months later — but now Clint tucked it away to the deepest recesses of his mind unwilling to face it. 

He rummaged through his cabinets for a bag of pretzels. Shopping was easy, especially with the use of the plastic card he had. Phil had set him up that too. Grocery stores had a lot of words but products had photographs on them. Pictures were Clint's saving grace really. Communal language, something everyone could understand. 

•• •• •• ••

It never mattered so much before, it was easy to put in the back of his mind when he was focused on hitting the bullseye because if he didn't he was in real trouble. No one was going to smack him around for not being able to read the posters hanging up. One of acrobats gave him a book when she caught him rustling through her things for the candies Barney sent him in for. 

Clint had expected to get slapped for it and he wasn't left disappointed. 

After she sat him down and explained that the bag he'd slipped into his pocket seconds before she caught him weren't candies but throat lozenges. She showed him the proper bag of hand candies that was admittedly less colorful than the throat soother which didn't make any sense to him. 

"You can't read can you?" She had pursed her lips after saying it and looked thoughtful. 

Clint offered back the bag of cough drops with shaking hands — Barney was going to kill him when he found out he’d not only failed but got caught! — and she pulled a worn paperback book from a worn bag under her cot. 

"When my daughter was little she really liked this book. It's got pictures and stuff. You oughta have that brother of yours teach you to read instead of steal.” She scowled at him. “No one's gotten tossed in jail for reading."

"Are you going to send me to jail?" 

Clint was frozen. Barney wouldn't let that happen, right? They'd runaway like they always did. Barney stole and they ran away. No one was supposed to go to jail...once caught, they just went away.

"If you ever steal from me again," She wagged her finger at Clint. He wished he could remembered her name. "Get out of here and don’t come in here again or I’ll lock you up myself."

Clint had made himself scarce and found his brother waiting where they slept behind the trailer. Barney had punched him in the head for getting caught for being too slow. Clint accepted his punishments, the blows and the words that always hurt so much more than the marks left on his skin. He hid the book and the next day, when he brother seemed less furious with him, and his failure was a bit less fresh, Clint asked tentatively about jail.

"That's where you’re gon end up ‘cos you're so damn slow." Barney looked like he wanted to hit him again so Clint blocked his face. Barney just socked him in the gut the same way Trick Shot did when Clint tried to weasel out of a backhand for once again missing the shot. "Don't be a pussy. Next time you mess up I'm sendin' you to jail, got it?"

Clint was almost certain he was joking but it wasn't a chance he wanted to take. While they were packing up the circus in preparation to the journey to a new location Clint breached the subject of reading to Barney. In response, Barney snorted and told him to recite the alphabet. 

Clint stammered over D, made a lucky guess on E and didn't know what came after F. 

"You’re just one of the dumb ones Clint. Long as you're good at somethin' you don't gotta worry. I'm smart enough for the both of us."

Clint told himself to be comforted by that fact but too many times Barney had proved his willingness to save his own skin rather than helping out his dumb younger brother. Then again, Barney had yet to leave Clint behind because he maintained his a use. He was small and quick, good at slipping his hands into pockets during the flood of people leaving the tents after a show.

Clint ditched the book in the refuse bin and any fantasies of reading or education with it. With the brutal guiding hand of Trick Shot and a deep rooted fear of botching another job and winding up in jail, Clint found his place in the world. 

And he hadn’t needed any book smarts to do it. 

•• •• •• ••

Sometimes there were long lulls between when Shield called upon them between missions. It never ceased to fascinate Clint how busy everyone kept outside of the Avengers. It was amazing the way they lived their lives in the background while facing the possibility of their demise during each mission. 

Clint was a one-track man in the sense that his entire life had always been spent wrapped completely around whatever he was working on. Back with the carnies Clint survived show to show and meal to meal. When he ditched the carnival scene, ultimately betrayed by the only person he thought he could trust in the world, he lived job to job and still meal to meal. 

With Coulson, operating as an agent for Shield full time, he lived mission to mission, no longer anxious about when and where his next meal would come, and in between time he could spend with the other agents, Natasha or Phil. 

As an Avenger Clint felt he had significantly more freetime and also, how lonely he was. Especially as he observed everyone else going about life paths, completely unconnected to the team. 

Tony was always inventing or improving something, Bruce worked diligently on various projects and researching tirelessly on trying to cure his own condition — all of it seemed far too complex for Clint to ever possibly comprehend much less willingly try and ask them about. Steve kept busy catching up on modern life from his seventy year long nap and quarreling with Tony when he thought no one was looking. Natasha was more secretive as a person but she did divulge at one point to Clint that she was going to try and find her birth parents. Natasha was determined to find out she found her way into the Red Room. Clint figured untangling his own history could have been a cool past time.

However that left Clint. There was no mystery to unravel. Both of his parents were definitely dead, the rest of his family line was too distant to even consider bothering with. Barney was still indulging on the criminal side of society and while Clint wished he could change, he knew better. One day the two would meet and Clint would do what he had to do. Until then, he turned a blind eye to it.

To combat the loneliness Clint wasted time watching television (Jarvis had programmed it to the few channels he liked) and he spent long hours training. As the only non-enhanced member he had a lot to measure up to; Clint didn’t really mind it because it kept him busy.

Clint was 'sparring' with Steve (which was pretty much Clint getting his ass epically kicked while Steve acted like his blows back actually affected the Super Soldier, but it obviously didn’t.) when Tony interrupted in his usual grandeur way. 

"I am bored." 

Clint took advantage of the lag in activity to back off the mat to safety and slouch down on the bench, wiping sweat off his brow. Steve wasn't even flushed. Bastard. 

"I'm sorry to hear that?" Steve offered Tony with a shrug.

Clint had to hand it to them — their determination to pretend they were barely friends was applause-worthy. 

"Oh, Cap, your empathy surpasses you." Tony deadpanned at the lackluster reaction. "I made reservations at Aû Bistro and you are all required to come."

Clint was always down for food, especially when someone else was footing the bill so he wasn’t going to raise a fuss about it. Tony had good taste in dining. Steve had difficulty finding a reason to argue and that momentary silence was a victory for Stark. Clint was almost certain their relationship primarily consisted of a running tally of won arguments and all those hidden love bruises on Steve's collarbones in the early morning before his accelerated healing made them vanish. 

"Excellent. Five on the dot it is. A car will be waiting." 

He swept out just as dramatically as he had entered and Steve glanced at where Clint had sprawled out. His blue eyes burned with a strange energy. 

"Wanna go around round?"

Jesus Christ, this man was going to kill Clint. He heaved himself to his feet and let himself get thrown around for another agonizing forty minutes before they went to the shooting range. Cap was all about the defense — hell, his weapon of choice was a goddamn shield which highlighted his ‘superior moral compass’. Clint maintained that it didn’t matter. No matter how enhanced Steve was, offense was the best defense. 

There was something refreshing about being able to stand beside a super soldier and out show them at something. Clint was shit at plenty of things but after getting tossed around a mat for the better half of a three hours, it was a refreshing change of pace. 

Steve rested the gun to the side, at the very edge of counter panel in front of them. Clint hadn't encountered a soldier who hated guns as much as Steve did…but Clint hadn't encountered a soldier like Steve at all. 

"I hate shooting." Steve admitted.

Clint shrugged, a bit curious about the sudden sharing. "Obviously I prefer the bow but I'm not picky when I have an enemy coming at me." 

Clint grinned as he hit the blue button to bring the target closer. The red button was an emergency response system because Jarvis’ audio wasn’t connected here, too much feedback apparently. Clint learned this very early on. 

They were clearly labeled as Tony had pointed out furiously (it was three am and he and Steve staggered in half dressed together which had made them both flustered and short tempered). Clint had feigned exhaustion and Tony had let it go, mostly to avoid any questions on why they were together at such an hour. Tony departed with a warning him to "pay attention to the goddamn signs around here Barton. I put them there for a fucking reason."

That morning Clint told himself that squirming feeling burning the pit of his stomach wasn't shame or embarrassment about the fact he had made the error because he couldn't read the sign but rather because he was embarrassed for the two men trying to pretend they had no idea why they were there. The entire situation was forgotten, Clint carried on as he was and made sure not to hit the red button again. 

He managed just fine.

"I suppose," Steve looked reluctantly at the gun lying innocently in front of him. "I guess it's the lethality of it that I don’t like. Disarming can turn to..."

Death? A war hero, still worried about killing others in the line of duty. Clint knew the feeling didn't go away with time, the idea of killing enemies still knocked at him a bit even now. Clint had learned not to see his targets as anything beyond that: targets. They were just moving bullseyes — not breathing people, many of whom had those who would mourn and miss them. 

Clint hadn't been through a war before, he didn’t know how to offer comfort for a veteran. Their experiences had been vastly differently. 

"I hear you." Clint opened his mouth to ask when his first kill was (Clint had been nineteen) but changed his mind. "You and Tony over the creamer issue?"

That pulled Steve's attention from the gun alright, Clint realized with triumph. Steve pulled a face somewhere between guilt and seething anger. 

"I hope Natasha doesn't think I'm mad at her." Clint wanted to snort at Steve’s reply. Evasion — that was a pretty shitty first try from the supposed tactical expert. "I know Natasha wouldn't do that on purpose."

Clint uttered a laugh of disbelief before he could catch himself. Natasha wouldn’t but Tony, a man who needed to have everything just so, wouldn’t replace an empty bottle? 

"What principle applies to Tony but not Nat?" Clint wasn't one to put someone on the spot but this particular case, warranted a detour from the usual.

A brush was creeping up Steve's neck again. "Tony can be... Y'know, Tony." 

"And Natasha can be Natasha. You can be Steve..." Clint made an 'etcetera' motion.

Steve pulled a face but did not offer up a defense. "It's just different." He muttered, clearly dismissive, and Clint let it rest. 

•• •• •• ••

The restaurant was exactly how Clint expected it to be, a stiff host wearing a suit far nicer than any that Clint could ever dream of owning and that cost more than everything Clint had combined, led them to a private room in the back with fancy bamboo blinds in the windows for privacy.

Tony was dressed to the dime, sunglasses on indoors which Clint always assumed was a sure sign of his unwavering douche-baggery but recently he had found out were actually screens with Jarvis built in. 

Originally it took Clint by surprise. While he was outwardly confident, Tony was so nervous about being apart from his security system that he had made a way to bring it with him everywhere. 

Clint didn’t pity him for it. It was just another one of those things that no matter what you did, you couldn't shake. Natasha always has to sit where she had full visuals on every potential entry and exit, a habit that Clint had inherited from his extensive work in espionage, and always had an escape in mind. Steve, even after expressing distaste in something finished it, never able to throw away food. Bruce was always very quiet in outings, taking great care in what he did and only responding when asked something, keeping the inner-beast quelled. 

Clint took up the sleek black menu and opened it. He expected it to be all text and oh boy, he wasn't disappointed. Small crowded text, and not a lot of it. "Not a lot of variety," Steve commented.

"Well," Tony took off the sunglasses because he was sitting beside Steve (both had been a bit dramatic about it, as if it brought them great suffering). "Quality or quantity Cap. Take your pick."

"Quantity," Steve said firmly with a nod of his head, exactly what someone who had witnessed and experienced starvation would say.

"Hopeless," Tony shook his head and looked at Bruce. "How's that molecular stability project you're playing with going?"

Bruce folded the menu. "It's going somewhere. Just not in a direction I'm pleased with," he smiled in a disappointed way and Clint tried to peek around at the others.

Natasha was still looking at the menu between glancing at the door and the two shaded windows. 

"I guess swordfish?" Steve asked.

Steve squinted at Tony as if seeking guidance. Relief rushed through Clint — he could try and see what else was available to be ordered with a careful line of questioning. 

"What are you getting Nat?" he tried to come off casual, not needy or completely lost. 

"Cobb salad," Natasha folded her menu. "I'm set."

Steve laid his on the table and Clint did the same because he didn't want to attract any stray looks. He got swordfish, because he thought it would better than a Cobb salad. Steve finished his plate. 

•• •• •• ••

Clint Barton doesn’t do paperwork. 

In his opinion it's as iconic as 'Joey doesn't share food'. Coulson took care of it before and Hill was in care of all the Avengers' paperwork currently — or she was, at least. 

"Slight protocol change. Headquarters wants mission reports."

Agent Hill looked unusually grim and frustrated that afternoon. Everyone had picked up the papers she’d laid out prior to their arrival, so Clint did as well. Mirroring was key in blending and avoiding detection.

"Reports? On secret operations?" Steve blinked in surprise. "No paper trail was my understanding ma'am."

"Firstly, Captain Rogers, call me ma'am again and we're going to have trouble." Her poor mood lifted enough for her wag her eyebrows at him. "Secondly, paper trails are a necessary evil of any functioning organization. I can check and see if there's a way around it — I know you're all busy and what you do is a service to society — but no promises."

A sigh rose and fell from Clint's teammates. The self soothing thought of 'it'll sort itself out' came to him as he saw no one was pleased about this. Tony Stark was as stubborn as they got. No one could make Tony do anything that he didn’t want to do. Clint set the paper back down, feigning an act of defiance, resisting the urge to rub his eyes for relief. 

Tony kicked up enough of a fuss that Fury relented within two days and bitterly assigned an agent to sit in debriefs and make notes. 

Clint managed, he always did. 

•• •• •• ••

The best part of being a sniper was that he rarely had to interact directly with the enemies. Of course, sometimes they caught him by surprise and Clint ended up with a broken nose and bow. 

When the scuffle ended quickly, Steve had trained him well. Within ten minutes of adrenaline fueled hand to hand (and bow to bad guy’s head), the enemy was secured.

"Barton, you good?" Tony's voice filtered through the earpiece.

"Fantastic," Clint resisted the urge to spit the blood running into his mouth and down the back of his throat directly on the snarling terrorist. "Awesome aerial surveillance by the way, Stark. Top notch."

"I can't be everywhere Legolas." Tony sounded vaguely amused. "Besides, the Widow was suddenly a damsel in distress — was I supposed to let the princess parish?"

Clint paused wiping away the blood running down his face feeling like he'd been caught by surprise by all over again. A rush of dread and adrenaline making his insides knot up. "Nat?" 

"I'm fine and would have been fine, Tony." Natasha sighed but there was a bit of softness in her tone as she added, "But it would have gotten pretty messy. Thank you Tony."

"That's what teams are for," Steve cut in. "Are you alright Clint? I'm almost there."

Clint swiped his glove over his face frowning down at his broken bow. "I'm fine but I'm out of commission."

"Things are about wrapped up anyway. Bruce, check over Clint?"

"Sure," Bruce said immediately as Clint protested.

"Clint. Go." Natasha's no nonsense tone cut in. "I'm heading that way too."

"You said you were fine." 

Clint pulled the grunt to his feet who put up a decent fight but a boot to the sciatic nerve had him much more plaint. That move Nat had taught him. 

"I am." 

Natasha wouldn't admit she wasn't okay until she was actively dying, Clint was sure. 

In the quinjet Clint's nose was set and taped by Bruce. He tossed back some painkillers before mourning his bow. Coulson has helped design it and gifted it to him. This was it; the last piece of physical proof of Phil’s impact on Clint: gone. 

Lead settled on his chest as he set it the pieces back in the case. 

"They'll fix it." Natasha said as she noticed the somber expression Clint couldn’t hide well enough. 

Natasha had broken ribs and a nasty gash on her face. Blood had matted in her hair, auburn for the last two months. Clint wanted to ensure she was okay but was feeling pretty sorry for himself at the moment. 

"Who?" 

He didn't want anyone to touch the bow before and he was still hesitant now. Tony had offered him various bow upgrades dozens of times now but the only thing Clint would allow were new arrows. His bow had been perfectly fit for him. It was a part of him. It was broken now. Clint was broken.

"Shield," she nodded toward the closed case. "I'll bring you down to the maintenance department."

"Will they know how?" 

"They design all our equipment, save for whatever Tony tosses our way." 

Clint could see a glimmer of hope on the horizon. If they built it they could put it back together and that last connection didn't need to go away. Maybe it was the painkillers making him more emotional. "Thanks Tasha." 

Back on base Steve tagged along because the stealth suit had absorbed three bullets and needed to be replaced. Seeing Steve in civilian clothes made him more human. In fact the super soldier looked weary as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Natasha came from the Med Bay with a butterfly bandage gracing the side of her face and a slight gait which meant that it was a bad break. 

"Natasha," Tony strolled over from where he was talking (belittling) a mechanic to give her a once over. "Looking beautiful as always."

"Fuck you too Stark," she smiled and it was reflected in her eyes.

"I need a drink after that fight," he looked hopefully toward the team. "Drinks on me?"

"Absolutely." Natasha agreed. "But first we need to run downstairs."

"Why?" Tony peered at her. "Are you concussed? The maintenance team works down there and I, Tony Stark, can do anything they can do a million times better."

Steve crossed his arms and frowned in a disapproving manner. Clint thought about his brief stints in schools and how he'd seen that exact expression glowering down at him from posters. He never knew what it was it that Captain America was promoting (freedom, probably) but it was a strange moment of self reflection. How a filthy, starving uneducated kid somehow ended up part of the Avengers was still a mystery to him — but he knew he had Phil to thank. 

"Not this." Natasha said firmly.

She hooked her arm around Clint's which outwardly would have looked like a sign of friendship — and they were friends, the two as close as two spies with too many secrets to count each could be — but Clint recognized how she leaned her weigh into him. Casualness to hide a vulnerability. Clint knew how much it scared her to be off, to be hindered by anything. She typically hunkered down and licked her wounds in private, locking down her floor. It made the fact she was willing to do this for him mean even more.

"Please tell me one thing Shield had managed to make you that I could." Tony tagged along, clearly for the purpose of proving his superiority over these techs. And naturally since Tony was going Steve did as well. "Banner, we're taking the party downstairs apparently. We can laugh at their subpar craftsmanship."

Sometimes Clint thought about trying to learn to read but people like Tony reminded him exactly how far he had to go. He was surrounded by geniuses who flaunted everything that could do belittled those couldn’t match up. 

"They have access to a lot of things we don't," Banner began in his slow careful voice. He had a very pleasant voice and Clint didn't mind hearing him talk. "Shield has discovered a lot of remarkable things."

"Shield steals a lot of things. If they were polite they would share." 

Tony spoke with no regard to the fact that there were cameras everywhere and that they worked for the organization. Plus, no they did not steal, they borrowed and studied things that were being brought to them by aggressors.

"Same could be said for you," Steve voiced his irritation plainly. "You could be a bit kinder to them you know."

"Kind! My presence itself is a gift, Cap. My team has saved the world how many times?"

"Your team?" Steve rose a brow and Tony waved his hand in a dismissive manner. 

"My team, your team," Tony shrugged, "Either way, they owe us big time."

No one bothered to argue with his reasoning. The elevator doors slid open on the bottom floor. A few junior agents were down there loitering but straightened up as they caught sight of Captain America.

Natasha and Clint went to the end of the hall and into a small waiting room. It was sparsely furnished, a few metal chairs there like a second thought. It smelled a bit like diesel. At the front desk a kid, probably not much older than twenty, was scrolling through his StarkPhone. Natasha arched a carefully plucked brow and cleared her throat softly. The kid glanced up once and then again to verify he recognized her before he was shoving the phone out of the sight and sitting up pin straight. 

"Agent Romanoff," his eyes flickered to Clint, "and Agent Barton. Hi-hello I was just — "

"Agent Barton's bow is in need of repairs." She cut in. 

Clint took that as his cue to lift the case into the counter. The kid made a hasty grab for it and popped open the lid. He whistled lowly. 

"Damn," he murmured and then looked up with a bright curiosity. "What happened?"

Clint grinned. It nice to have someone look at him anywhere near the way they looked at Steve when he was around. "Classified. Can you fix it?"<

"I'm a Level 3 clearance level," the kid bragged, as though it was something particularly impressive. 

Natasha smiled, cold and deadly. "I can tell you but then I'd have to kill you." 

Any humor as the kid gulped and then took the case in back. He didn’t come back, a senior agent taking his place as Steve, Bruce and Tony came in filing in. Significantly more professional, or at least less impacted by the superhero’s presence the senior agent didn’t bat an eye at them. 

"I'll need a few days to get it together. You'll just need to fill out the equipment repair request so I can get started."

Clint felt trapped, like the walls were coming in to crush him and he had to remind himself to breathe as the sheet of paper was laid in front of him. 

"I've got a headache, I just got back from an op," he said laboriously, the same way Tony had when convincing Fury to have someone else do their paperwork. "Can you just fill it out?"

"Just fill out the damage description, your name, department code, your agent number and print and sign your name. I'll get the rest." 

Clint's words died in his throat. He didn't know what excuse he could use without being a dick. "I'll just bring it back when I pick up the bow."

Maybe Jarvis could scan it, input the information and print it somewhere. 

"I can't touch it until you've signed it over to me and this form is completed." 

"Just fill it out Barton," Tony pointed at his disgustingly expensive timepiece. "It's almost five o'clock."

Clint tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to snatch the case back with a big 'fuck you' and demand a new one. He'd still have the one Coulson gave him. 

"Look if you don't want to go through the repair process you can request a new one. But that's a shit ton more paperwork and you have to write a 'Justification Report'." 

No, no this wasn't fair. Coulson has just given him the first one. 

"They're not bad," Steve offered in. "Takes like five minutes top. I had to do it to get my Shield back when I came out of the ice."

"I didn't have to when I got it." Clint protested. Maybe he sounded too panicked because Natasha gave him an odd look. "It-it's the principle."

Steve was looking hard at him down and Clint was certain all the oxygen was being sucked out of the room. "I — this is mine. I shouldn't have to justify and defend it or fill out a billion papers just to have it fixed!"

"Actually this is property of SHIELD," corrected the senior agent with an air impatience. "Just like Agent Rogers shield and Agent Romanoff's supplies. I know paperwork sucks, I get it — but I can't do my job until it's done."

"C'mon Barton." Tony pressed with a groan, like a petulant child. Clint's hands curled into fists as he struggled to keep calm. "Just fill out the damn form and let's go."

"I'm not filling it out. I’m...I’m not doing it. I won’t."

He couldn't fill it out and they couldn't know. God, everything was falling apart and he was scrabbling at the edges trying to keep his life together.

"You won't?" The Agent drew back in surprise. "You can't refuse Agent Barton."

"The hell I can't." Clint teeth were grinding together. 

"Clint, is it really that big of a deal?" 

Tony looked at him with open annoyance and Steve looked openly displeased by his response too. Clint actually was trapped. He couldn’t breathe. 

"I'll do it," Bruce offered quietly, just as Clint felt the world was crumbling around him as he stepped forward. 

Bruce grabbed a pen from the holder and soon slanted letters appeared on the paper, the task Clint had put some much opposition toward completed in merely moments. Clint was left feeling even more foolish and exposed.

Clint was frozen, watching him complete it. Warm brown eyes met his a few moments later and Clint looked away. His throat felt raw and tasted of blood. 

"Just sign here," Bruce made a small dot with the pen and glanced toward the agent for his permission. Bruce avoided conflict whenever he could. "That works, right?"

"As long as it's filled out," the agent nodded his head, "and if you've got an issue with it Barton, go to your handler."

It hurt that his handler wasn’t Coulson. He had to remind himself that was Hill now. Not Phil but Agent Hill who he couldn’t call Maria because it didn’t feel right. 

Clint took the pen in a shaky hand. Was he holding it right? His muscles felt frozen and he couldn't remember how Bruce had held it, too focused on the words he wrote. 

He made the scribble — Barney said no one read signatures anyway, just make some loops and you were good. 

"Seriously Barton? We have to be able to read it." The Agent looked down at the page with a look of disappointment, of frustration and anger. It felt hauntingly familiar. "I know you think your time is so much more important than ours but next time, at least put in an effort. You’re just making our jobs harder."

He pulled the sheet and case over the counter. Clint didn’t think that but he didn’t know how to defend himself right now. It was hard enough to maintain a train of thought. Clint almost felt like he was having an out of body experience. 

"I'll send you an email when I'm done."

Clint snapped out of his trace and was already stalking out of the room by the time he said 'email'. 

Technically, he had managed right?

It felt a little thin and desperate.

•• •• •• ••

He got back to the Tower after everyone else clinging onto this hopeless thought that maybe they forgot all about it. What he found was them waiting expectantly. Clint’s stomach sunk lower and lower as he was subjected to unimpressed glowers and the ‘I’m Disappointed in You’ Captain America face.

"The hell was that about?" Tony began because Tony always began. He needed the first word, the last word, and everything in between. 

Clint felt tired. His nose really did hurt and his head was throbbing. Clint didn't want to deal with any of this. 

"Nothing. I just was pissed about the paperwork." Clint tried to seem casual. "I'm tired. I was in a bad mood."

"It was writing your name on a piece of paper," Steve sounded upset which made Clint feel like shit and defensive all at once. "Agent Simmons was trying to do his job and you made it difficult even after he offered to do most of the work himself. I don't like paperwork anymore than you do but taking it out on him wasn't very polite or professional."

"I know, okay? I'll apologize." Clint stepped toward the elevator.

"Clint?" Bruce’s voice was so hesitant. The dread inside him increased a tenfold. He expected the question, felt it in his bones. "Was it reading the form that was the issue or not being able to write properly? Or was it both?"

A moment's hesitation was all it took for that question to completely unearth the facade Clint had built up so tediously, maintained so carefully. He felt dizzy, faint. 

"Of course he can, Banner.” Tony rolled his eyes. “He’s been with Shield for years — he was just playing stupid so they’d stop — "

"I'm not stupid," Clint hissed and his hands curled into fists. 

He wanted to hit Tony but more than that he wanted to run and abandon all of this. He wanted to hide. He wanted Bruce to take it back. He didn't want it to be true. 

Tony's jaw was slack as he stared at Clint, looked right through him because that reaction just solidified what he’d said. Tony was seeing Clint was he was: the idiot carnie, the grown ass man who couldn't fucking read or write. "You can't." Tony said suddenly. "Oh my God, you actually can't."

"Tony." Steve's voice was quiet but it was a clear 'shut up'. 

"Steve." Tony bit back bitterly. "Barton can't fucking read and we've been putting our lives in his hands for how long?"

"Jesus Tony, can't you show some fucking tact?" Steve thundered.

Blood roared in Clint's ears as his brain struggled to decide between flight or fight. 

"Tact?" Tony threw his hands up. "We have been trusting a guy who can't spell his own goddamn name to take out the right people and not us!"

"I can spell my name." It was the last thing Clint should have said because it just fueled Tony on.

"Oh yeah?” Tony smirked coldly and leaned forward just enough to add an extra layer of insult. “Spell your name for us, Einstein."

Clint flinched because this was salt into a wound he tore open himself by saying he could do something he couldn't actually do. 

"Tony," Steve's voice was loud enough to echo. "Stop."

"I-I know what it looks like," Clint said because that was something. 

Sure, he could draw the symbols, the letters. They would probably be all shaky and wobbly and look nothing like he saw others do, but he could make C-L-I-N-T if Tony wanted him to. 

He could manage.

"Okay so you can read?" Steve looked horribly relieved which was crushing within itself. "Clint it took me a while to adjust to all the big words they use too."

He wasn't sure which was worse: Tony's comments that were too mean to be jokes or Steve's attempts at comforting him. 

"I don't understand," Bruce folded up his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "All this time and you haven't had to read or write anything? What about your Shield testing? Banking? Paying your bills? Shopping?"

Clint's shoulder's were drawn up defensively. "I get by just fine." His voice shook a bit, "So leave it alright? I'm fine."

"You're illiterate." Tony laughed in disbelief. "Jesus, Barton, you're fucking illiterate!"

Clint's head gave a terrible throb as he glared at the man in front of him. Tony Stark: the genius who could read and write in more languages than Clint even knew when he was in fucking grade school. 

"So what? I didn't need book smarts to survive. Not everything was given to me a silver plate by my butler Stark." If Tony wanted to cut deep, Clint would cut deeper: those were street skills. 

Tony pulled a face and then paused thoughtfully. "Y'know maybe I was wrong.” Tony said in a slow sardonic way, “You can read me pretty well."

Clint swung his fist. It was blind and sloppy. It contained all of the anger, all of his shame, all of his desperation and Steve stepped forward knocking his arm to the side like it was nothing. Clint's vision went hazy. He was hurt. These had been his friends for the past few years and he cared about them. And now they were going to throw him away. He was just a stupid, illiterate carney would knew how to make a shot.

He was a liability.

"Fuck you," Clint thanked whatever God there was that his voice didn't betray how close he was to crying. 

He hadn't cried in years. Not since Trick Shot whipped him raw for it while she shot arrow after arrow until he learned not to let himself be weak. His dad used to knock him around the head for it too. Barney inherited that and continued tradition even after they were dead. 

"Men don't cry," Barney would say gruffly, a parody of their father. "Don't be a sissy Clint."

Barney's voice helped dry the moisture and he knew that he had to leave but first, he was going to hurt Tony. Because had to get the last shot in. Because he knew what shots to take and he never missed the goddamn target.

"Fuck you all. I don't need this. I get by just fine on my own. And maybe I can't read or write but I'm not stupid. I can make shots that not even you guys can. I'm fast and I'm reliable," he was babbling off all the things he'd overheard Coulson say when Fury questioned his choice. He wanted to make them realize what they were losing or at least try. "I'm an asset and I'm good at what I do. You might be smart Stark but you and Rogers couldn't have done a poorer job hiding that you're fucking each other if you tried."

Steve's jaw went slack and there was a caged look that was painfully familiar to Clint current predicament. His biggest secret exposed in a violating way. The Super Soldier who held himself so proudly and moved with such absolute certainty, kind of a sagged a bit. Clint felt like he had kicked a puppy not once but three times just to hear it yelp. Too far. A perfect shot. 

Clint opened his mouth to apologize to Steve — because, honestly fuck Tony but Steve didn’t deserve this. 

"It's dangerous to throw stones when you will live in a glass house," Tony said which made fuck all sense but it sounded threatening so Clint closed the space between them.

This was...good. The anger was burning so strongly that he didn't even feel the humiliation tugging at him from all sides. That he couldn't even read the words on Stark's stupid, probably vintage t-shirt. 

"Do you know how many times I've save your ass Stark?"

Tony wasn't overly fond of being touched so Clint made sure to put his left hand on his shoulder. Tony pushed it off with a growl and Clint put both hands on him, thumbs hovering over the hard edge of the arc reactor. Clint could see the carefully controlled panic edging into his glare. No amount of reading skills could change this position of power. Tony wasn’t in control and it was killing him.

"Clint." 

Bruce's voice was calm. He was good at not losing control, not even when he was blindsided by the fact he had been working side by side with a retard. Clint pulled back, breathing harsh and uneven. He had to blink away more tears, refusing to be anymore pathetic than he was in this moment. "I'm not stupid." He said again, voice hitching a bit. 

 

"No you're not." Bruce agreed. "I shouldn't have said anything in front of the team — I am so sorry."

"I'm not stupid." He glared at Tony. He had to get that point across. If Tony could be made to believe it then he could too; Tony was a genius. If he knew then it had to be true. "I'm good at what I do."

Tony wouldn't look at him, his posture stiff and defensive but he seemed wounded. It was exactly how Clint wanted to see the proud man but there was no satisfaction in his achievement. 

There was a just bitter taste of betrayal and sadness hanging around the back of his throat. Steve was still silent, shellshocked by what Clint had said. He was stupid — not because he was illiterate but because he had done something so cruel to someone who hadn't done a thing to him.

"You are great at what you do Clint." Bruce nodded his head. "No one here can measure up to your level of skill and we know that. This is my fault completely, I shouldn't have trapped you like this. It was a bad approach. I’m sorry."

"It's not like it's a secret or anything. I don't care." Clint didn't care, really, he didn't. What he did care about was everyone else looking at him like Bruce was, with pity or like Tony had, as a liability. "I get by just fine."

"Okay. I trust your judgment. There’s no need to keep on about it then." Bruce smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. Those burned into Clint, judgemental and cold. "We can let it drop, right?"

"Fine." Steve's voice was too loud and hurried. He hastily made his way to the elevator without looking at any of them. 

Clint couldn't bear being in the same building as them so he left. 

•• •• •• ••

There were plenty of signs as he walked down the sidewalks, hands shoved deep his pockets hating himself and everyone else in the world. He had blinded himself to the signs and their words at this point but now it just made his blood pressure skyrocket. 

Clint body ached from the fight but he was brimming with restless energy so he couldn't sit for a moment.

So what if he couldn't read? Why did it matter? 

He dragged a hand through his hair and once he found a quieter street, paused to look at an advertisement tacked up on a pole. He recognized some of the symbols from his name. He swallowed hard and moved on it. Clint was having trouble saying he managed.

Propaganda was bad anyway, all the TV shows said it. He wasn't as susceptible as others — Tony couldn't say that. 

Eventually it got dark and too cold for the sweater he had on. He tried to keep his head up. If he didn't act like it bothered him they wouldn't know. There was no party waiting to humiliate him or to kick him out. His floor was untouched and unchanged. He sat down on the couch and then jumped up to go down to the range before realizing he couldn't because his bow was in for repairs.

"Hey Jarvis?" Clint half expected Tony to have programmed the AI not to respond to him. 

"How can I be of assistance Agent Barton?"

Clint couldn't decide if he was agitated Tony hadn’t done something petty like turning off Jarvis or to be relieved. Maybe it wasn't a big deal and they'd all move on. 

Or maybe Clint had really hurt his friends. 

"Is, uhh, Steve okay?"

There was a pause, as if the AI was considering it. "Captain Rogers is unharmed. As a machine I am not qualified to comment on the psychological state of him."

It escaped Clint how Jarvis knew what he was asking without him saying it. Tony really was a genius. That was it, really, the last tally in the 'who's really an asshole' game. Clint was because he had been selfish and hurt someone who hadn't done a thing to him. 

"Where is he?"

Steve was reliable and fair. No scuffle or argument was ever hung between them — unless you were Tony and in that case it was ‘the principle’ that mattered. "Captain Rogers is in the gym. Shall I alert him of your arrival?"

"No, don’t.”

Clint was a little worried he'd leave if he had warning. At the same time he didn’t really want to trap him the way he had been. Of course there wasn't an audience in the gym. 

The elevator doors slide open and the sound of fists beating against the punching bag nearly made Clint cringe. Steve was angry, the pile of split bags in the far corner by the weights and was roof enough. He could break every bone in Clint's body — he probably deserved it. Clint didn’t know what could be said so he leaned against the wall and watched Steve hit the bag.

Coulson taught him how to use one properly. How to propel himself into his hits, to bounce on the balls of his feet to stay quick. Form controlled but too tight. 'Not so stiff Clint, that's a good way to break your wrist'. The bag hits the floor with a muffled thud and sand spills the side. The suddenly quiet was near deafening and Clint drew in breath to alert Steve he was there.

The inhale must have been caught his super senses because Steve spun around, hands coming up as if expecting an enemy before the fierceness faltered and instead he looked distressed. 

"I'm sorry." Clint held up his hands in a surrendering gesture.

Steve ran his hands through his hair — he hadn't wrapped them and one of his knuckles was split open. The pit of Clint's stomach ached with regret. 

"It's not you." Steve stepped to the side and picked up his water bottle. "Tony was completely out of line. I shouldn't have let the team do that to you. I can’t apologize enough."

Steve was apologizing to Clint? 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He didn't mean to sound so angry. Clearly Steve thought he was so unbelievably pathetic and stupid he couldn't even be pissed that he'd outed him! "I don't need your pity, Rogers."

"I'm not offering it, Barton." Steve said in a clipped voice. "You're lousy at apologizing by the way."

"You're not even mad at me," Clint said in an accusatory tone. "Cos you think I'm too stupid to know better right? The retard doesn't understand social graces."

Steve smiled one of those cold, displeased smirks that hardly seemed fitting on the historically charming icon. "I'm not mad at you because I know you didn't expose us out of hate." Steve being understanding was decidedly worse and Clint pondered what escape routes he could use without looking like a complete coward. "Tony shouldn't said that to you and you don’t fit the category of mentally retarded — although I am fairly certain that term is outdated and probably offensive. Either way, you aren't stupid Clint."

That fucking word. Clint thought it about himself plenty, internalized it and ran with it, managed despite it, but hearing it come out of someone else's mouth got the anger flooding his body. Because having someone tell you you're not stupid was a sure sign you were but everyone felt bad about it. Clint wanted to hit something — preferably not Steve because he would hurt himself more than he’d actually hurt Captain America and, honestly, Steve was too fucking nice which just made him want to strike him more. 

"I shouldn't have told everyone you were fucking Tony." Clint crossed his arms, sickeningly still a bit satisfied by the fact they were both exposed here. 

Steve exhaled heavily. "What's done is done." He said simply. "I'm not sorry I didn't let you hit him though. He was an asshole but we're a team and teammates don't attack each other or leave each other stranded."

Stranded — that was a good word for how Clint had felt when all those eyes were on him. No one had spoken up in his defense, not until things escalated. 

"I don't care," he insisted. "Tony can say whatever he wants. Doesn't make it true."

"So you can read and write then?" Steve looked at him as if he already knew he couldn't. 

"Fuck you." Clint's face colored. He'd never blushed more than he had today and oh man, did he hate it. "I don't wanna be part of your stupid team anyway."

Steve had the audacity to look shocked while Clint felt like he'd just nose dived off a goddamn cliff. This team was all he had. He could go back to Shield and a new handler but he didn't want to and he wasn’t even certain they’d accept him once they knew. They’d say he was a liability, call him illiterate. Either way it wasn't the same without Coulson; it hurt him too much to walk down those halls and know he wasn't going to pop into Coulson's office to bother him for fun. 

"I can't make you stay if you don’t want to, Clint, but it'll be a damn shame to see you go," Steve said after a minute. "I hope you'll reconsider."

"Why should I?" 

Clint was looking for reassurance. He told himself that he didn't need someone to pat him on the head and say, ‘you're doing good enough Hawkeye, we didn't even notice until today’ — but in this particular moment he really did. He wanted Steve to tell him to stay because they needed him. That Clint wasn’t hindering the team’s abilities.

"Because you're one of the best snipers I've ever worked with it." Steve was honest so Clint didn't have to worry about it being a lie. "And because you're part of this team."

Clint huffed, ultimately feeling validated by that which he despised. 

"So what? You don't care that I can't, y'know," Clint waved his hand in substitution for saying the words. He wasn’t ready yet; it still hurt.

"I went to war with men like you. I trusted them with my life and I trust you." Steve ghosted a smile. "It'll be a little rough around the edges but you said you manage right?"

Clint inclined his head. Steve took a swig of his water. "Good. No reason for you to go anywhere."

Clint hadn't quite gotten his chance to apologize properly to Steve but he did feel a significant burden lifted off of him. If Steve wasn't going to kick him out (he wanted him there, he'd said so himself, he didn't think Clint was stupid or a liability) things had the possibility of going back normal. He went to the elevator to go back to his floor.

"Clint," Steve turned around after hanging a new bag. Clint put his hand out to stop the doors for sliding. "I do accept your apology. Why I’m down here isn't about you. It's the principle."

So it was about Tony then? Did that still make it his fault? Clint put it out of mind and went back to his floor only to lay awake and stare at the ceiling for hours. 

Maybe today could turn into a bad dream.


	2. Maybe Things Don’t Always Work Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Clint come to an uneasy truce that is broken immediately, Clint ends up in a not so good situation and Tony, maybe, kind of, possibly, breaks some laws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So initially I meant this to be two chapters but it’s actually three. 
> 
> Also, Tony kind of comes off a dick and that was not intentional. There will be plenty of feels in the next part.

Clint utilized Jarvis in filling in the gaps whenever he needed to read something — and by filling in the gaps he was of course referring to understanding the entire thing.

Jarvis sorted his email, set up by Coulson at the same time he got his plastic money card, and would read the contents to him while he got ready in the morning. Jarvis knew to skip around and summarize. The AI learned as it went along, an ingenious creation from Stark though it pained Tony to admit it after everything. Jarvis had gained a good grasp on Clint’s vocabulary and used terms Clint never had to think too hard about. It was an almost relaxing way to begin the day. 

"You have received an encrypted email from Senior Agent Matthews sent at 2100 letting you know your bow is ready to be picked up. The email included a particular note I will verbalize exactly as written: ‘Note, paperwork is not optional and I've already spoken to Agent Hill.'

Clint uttered a curse at the ceiling and then pressed his face into the pillows. They were so plush and overfilled his entire face seemed to vanish within the folds of expensive fabric and feathers. It was ridiculous luxury that Clint had embraced wholeheartedly. 

Before Clint arrived at the Stark Tower, he had one pillow in his possession. The same pillow he brought with him everywhere from the day he left the dingy trailer to each foster and group him that followed. The pillow was absolutely run down and worn as the rest of his things, stained and yellowed with age. The polyester filling had been flattened so long ago it hardly served its function but that didn’t matter. It was Clint’s pillow and that meant something back then, when there was no absolutes in where he’d lay his body to rest. Clint always knew he’d be resting his head on that pillow.

Clint still had the pillow and would always have it no matter what. It was beneath all these nice fluffy ones Stark had given him. A sort of metaphor for his situation. Under all the posh luxury there was the truth. Beneath the Egyptian Cotton pillowcases with several thousand thread counts, there was a pillow whose origin was unknown and held absolutely no material worth. 

Stark was an asshole — but he had done a lot for the Team. He had put care into designing the spaces. He had mentioned to Clint the importance of having the best possible mattress for his bed. With everyone else it was ‘the bed’ or ‘the couch’ or ‘the apartment’. With Clint he gave him ownership, made him feel like he belonged there and that he was happy to have him. He made it seem permanent. But after last night what did that even mean? 

Typically Clint would have gone to make coffee for him and Natasha but she hadn't sent him a single message since the disaster that was yesterday. Clint didn't want to over think it but he couldn't help but worry that he had lost a friend and any chance in Hell of being anything more with the wildly beautiful and dangerous ex-Soviet spy.

He didn't want to be caught blindsided again and have to fight his way out. Steve had forgiven him and Bruce said it wasn't an issue. That just left Natasha, Thor, Sam Wilson on occasion, and maybe Tony. Clint's insides iced up at the thought. Not Tony. He'd made his stance abundantly clear. 

Clint wasn't stupid because he couldn't spell his name. He could see things they couldn't, he could interrogate targets and spy and move with stealth. He could make shots others could only dream of. And he could do all of it without needing to read a damn thing — that was impressive! 

Coulson would have thought so. Or he would have kicked Clint to the curb in a second disgusted he had allowed a moron to possibly jeopardize his missions. 

Clint tried to put it out of mind. Whatever Coulson would have done or thought was unknown because Coulson was dead. And, if Clint was to be honest, had Phil known, he would probably roll over in his grave.

"Mister Barton, Captain Rogers is requesting your presence at the breakfast table."

Clint's breath caught. Being suspicious without reason was foolish, especially in his line of work. He had an arsenal of secrets he held near and dear about things that enemies would gladly torture him over. Paranoia took all the fun out of life. But he couldn't help but fear that Steve had been turned against Clint by Tony because they were sleeping together and he had hurt Tony. Remembering the feeling of his thumbs skirting the edges of the arc reactor made him feel sick. He could have seriously hurt Tony, beyond the fact he had really scared him. Any trust between them had been shattered the moment Clint moved into the obvious weak spot. 

"Okay." If they were going to kick him out, fine. He'd steal back his bow and go back to mercenary work. It hadn't been bad, save for the constant moving and the killing. But he killed people who had done wrong so really, it wasn't much different than the work they did now. "Okay."

Clint took his time washing his face, fixing his hair, getting dressed and making it seem like yesterday had been forgotten because it was so unimportant for him. He changed the way he was walking twice — did he stroll in casually or stride in with his head up high? — before he jammed his hands in his pockets and walked in as normally as he could manage. 

The table was full and it seemed Thor had arrived at some point in the late evening or early morning. Usually the vibrations could be felt through the whole damn toward when Thor Odinson was brought here. 

"Clint! It seems I have arrived before you have waken!" Thor stood, towering over the archer. "It is a sunny day in Midgard. Meats?"

Clint blinked at the sheer mound of bacon on the God’s plate before shrugging noncommittally, unsure on if his voice would betray how nervous he currently was. Clint took a few slices of bacon from the plate to keep his hands busy and his mouth full. Tony was looking at his StarkPad, as he always was, a mug of coffee and untouched plate beside him. Pepper was there too and for a moment Clint had difficulty swallowed the bit of bacon in his mouth. Did she know? She wasn't part of the team in the traditional sense because her job kept her busy and any free time was usually spent keeping Stark out of trouble with the press and taking care of his daily needs. Clint wondered for a moment if Steve would take over the former but the thought vanished as she held out a cup. 

"Good morning! Two creams, four sugars." There wasn't any pity in her smile and Clint could appreciate it that. Maybe she didn’t know. Tony would have risked blabbering, not when Clint was also armed with sensitive information.

"Morning.” Clint knew it would be rude to ignore the first person who spoke to him so he glanced at Thor. So far his voice was steadier than he felt. “I didn't hear you get here." 

"I came through the door." Thor seemed very proud of this. "I visited Jane last evening."

"Oh yeah? How's she and Darcy doing?"  
Small talk — Clint could small talk.

Thor, never one for manners, spoke around a mouthful of a bacon. "Swell, my friend. I did not visit with Darcy as she was 'chillaxing' at home. I've not yet heard of this activity but Jane tells me it is a form of relaxing."

Clint had to remind himself to smile. Natasha's expression was dark and directed at him. And good feelings withered in that icy stare. 

"Good." He sipped on his coffee while he waited for the conversation to continue around him.

It did and things felt eerily normal. Steve was polite but cheerful. His knuckles held no proof of the way he had been striking the bag last evening. Maybe he had worked out the principle for himself. Clint finished his cup of coffee and went to wash it — Steve had gotten on all of them about leaving dishes for the housekeeping staff months ago. Tony had reminded him it was technically the housekeepers jobs and Steve maintained that they had plenty to do keeping the Tower clean. 

He put the cup up to dry and planned to slip out unnoticed so he went around the long way. He'd made it to the elevator when he got caught. "Clint!" 

He pushed his shoulders back refusing to show weakness as he glowered at Tony. "I know how to work the elevator." He spit because he couldn't help it.

Tony laughed in a stiff, ugly way. "Yeah, okay. Look, we need to come to an understanding here." Tony's jaw ticked and he wasn't quite meeting Clint's eyes. There was a bit of color on his cheeks. "I'll put in layman's terms: you don't tell my secret, I don't tell yours. Understand, Stephen Hawking?"

Clint's teeth ground together. "You're an asshole — why would I trust you?" 

How could he trust him after being so cruel about it? Maybe it was the last line of defense but Clint was thinking selfishly now. He had to, he had protect himself just as he always had. Tony exhaled heavily in agitation. "Look,” he began but Clint cut him off. 

“Why would I trust you?” 

“Because we both know something about each other that cannot leave the Tower. Blackmail, Barton — please tell you at least know what that is.”

Clint understood blackmail just fine but that didn’t make him feel any less wary about entering an agreement on confidentiality with a man who gladly tossed his secret identity to the wind on live TV. Besides being gay didn’t compare to the fallout for Clint. Sure some bigots would probably complain, maybe stocks would dip for a bit for him. Clint would lose his job. His reputation would be publicly destroyed by this and Tony Stark now had that to add his arsenal. 

But what choice did Clint really have? He couldn’t walk away from this. Well, he could but he really didn’t want to. He’d finally found something he loved doing, somewhere he had once felt he belonged. He couldn’t lose SHIELD and the security of having others he could depend on. 

“Fine.” Clint’s hands folded into fists. “I don’t need anyone else knowing my business if you don’t want anyone knowing yours.”

"Deal. And I really would appreciate it if you kept Steve’s, um, personal life out of any future disagreements between us. Steve doesn't deserve that — you don't understand how difficult..." Tony paused, searching for the right word. Clint wouldn't have taken Tony for an overly empathetic person but there was pain in his eyes for Steve. Clint had to give him props for his acting skills if this wasn't genuine. "It's not as big of a deal to us as is for him, is all I'm saying. Different time and all that but he's still from that time."

Clint felt like a piece of shit all over again and couldn’t help but apologize. "I didn't mean to out him — or you, for that matter." Clint rubbed the back of his neck but no, he had meant to. It was shitty of him, but he’d done it on purpose. "I apologized to Steve last night — "

"I heard. Let’s just try and be civil in front of the others.” 

Tony’s arms crossed, betraying how confident he felt about the situation. Putting himself on guard and also protecting the arc reactor. Clint told himself not feel guilty. Tony had started all of this.

"No hits below the belt," Clint shrugged his shoulders, anxious to get away from him. "Easy enough."

Tony nodded his head curtly. Clint turned back toward the elevator. 

"Y’know Barton… I can play with Jarvis a bit and see if I can help you with that paperwork thing?" Eager as always to fix a seen problem, it seemed. It was just Tony being Tony he reminded himself, no reason to get worked up. That didn’t stop him from feeling defensive. Especially when Tony added, "Since you’re kinda inept at it?"

"Fuck you Stark.”

Clint would not even entertain asking Tony for help with anything. Mostly because there was an easy solution to all of this...easy on paper at least. He was going to have to give in eventually anyway, especially since Hill was going to ride him about paperwork since he made a fool of himself trying to get the bow repaired. 

Tony would get the satisfaction he was seeking and once more, Clint got to play the role of the fool. 

•• •• •• ••

Clint did not have to fill out paperwork to get his bow back. He committed to his own stubbornness and simply left it there until Hill retrieved it herself and he feigned forgetting about it. 

"Oh yeah," he thought the surprise in his voice sounded sincere enough. "Thanks! I was wondering where this thing went."

He waited for her to say something, to call him out on his bullshit or at least bring up what had happened the day he dropped it off but Hill was brief with him, obviously distracted and she was called back to base shortly afterward. 

Things just worked out for Clint. He had his bow back and he was pleased. 

He went back to the Tower and immediately down to range to let fine-tuning his skills consume him. It was strange, the feeling shooting the bow gave Clint. It was bittersweet in a way; he loved it and he hated it. Archery was a part of Barton, a jagged piece that was forced to be a part of him. It was a sore type of comfort, the familiarity of an aching old injury on cold days or when it rained. When he younger he wanted to throw down the bow and never touch it again each time Trick Shot pushed and bullied and punished him. Now he could understand that it gave him a use, it gave him worth. Each bad memory associated with his talent had shaped him into excellence. 

The sound of the string, the whistling of the arrows, the thud of it hitting its mark each time was the soundtrack to a slow tragedy that was his life. Without this skill, Clint would be nothing. Expendable and tossed to the side. So long as he kept up his worth, no one would leave him behind. Had Clint been able to steal with his brother, they probably would be together still. 

Him and Barney were thick as thieves — and that was a pun. He knew what those were because he wasn't stupid. 

Again, again, again. He could still hear Trick Shot’s voice and that wouldn’t ever go away. It bothered Clint a bit that he couldn’t remember Phil’s from all those nights he stopped down and told him ‘take it easy’ and ‘been here all night Clint? how about some breakfast?’ and ‘it wouldn’t hurt to take a break, Agent. come help me with these new recruits’. 

A lump of emotion formed in his throat so Clint refocused. He hit the blue button and refilled the quiver for the seventeenth time. Clint’s arm ached and his forearms were bruised purple and blue because he hadn't thought to put on his gloves. 

Because Clint was an idiot which is very different from stupid. 

He was letting off the first arrow in his twenty ninth quiver when he felt the skin on the back of his neck pulling tight. He pivoted around, arrow pointed directly at Stark's skull. Unimpressed brown eyes glowered at him and Clint toyed with the idea of letting one go, to see it whizzing past his head to give him a good scare. 

He snorted a bit to himself and, maintaining unwavering eye contact, turned the bow to the target and shot knowing he would hit his mark. 

"Impressive." Tony said drolly.

"Can I help you with something?" 

Tony glanced at the target and then laced his long fingers together with a smile too content to make Clint feel safe. He hated this, the knowledge Tony held about him now undermined everything he'd accomplished. 

"Let me spell it out for you," Tony said with a toothy smile, predatory in nature. "Meeting in twenty minutes — you don't know to read a clock right?"

Tony's biggest weakness was now off topic because Steve didn't deserve to be dragged through the mud. Maybe the virtuous thing to do was to turn the other cheek but that did not quell the bubbling rage within him. Stark has gone for the throat not once, but twice. 

Clint told himself he had self control. Steve said he wanted him on the team, he didn’t have to go down to that level of pettiness. If there was no reaction, Tony would get bored. But Clint couldn’t help himself with the amount of adrenaline based fury running through his veins.

"I know how to read a clock." It was Clint's turn to smile, ugly and unapologetic. "I'm sure it's five o'clock somewhere."

Stark scowled. "Twenty minutes." He said in a clipped tone.

Various scenarios ran through Clint's head as he tried to judge when to arrive. Early? He was always late but what if instead of rolling his eyes and telling Clint to pay attention to the clock Steve just gave him a pitying look and assumed, much like Tony, that he simply could not read a clock? He came to an abrupt decision — he'd arrive on time. Steve had said he wouldn't treat him differently and Clint wanted to believe that. 

The mission briefing was quick — a situation had risen with some knock-off Extremists and they needed the Avengers to take care of it before anyone else exploded accidentally in public. 

The mission was going well in the beginning. 

No one was treating Clint any differently. He had his usually allocation of targets and tasks and he held his own. It was easy to let everything else fade into the background while he focused in on his job. 

"Clint you've got one coming up on your eight o'clock," Steve's voice filtered through the ear piece. 

Clint was already aiming when Tony snarked, "Clint, do you read?" with a snort at the end that made it crystal clear the phrase was used intentionally. 

Clint's entire body seized up as that feeling of being ripped open and exposed was back. The silence on the other ends of the comms hurt the worse. It wasn’t a private channel, they had all heard. Steve wasn't jumping up to his defense but why would he after Clint assured him it wasn’t an issue. Did Clint even want him to?

What happened to civil in front of the others, Stark?

"Clint, the target is getting awfully close, do you copy?" Steve's voice came urgently now. 

It snapped Clint out of his momentary paralysis. Clint made the shot with ease before he ripped out the ear piece. It was childish and it would definitely be docked from his pay but he stomped on the teeny piece of technology as if it could cause pain to the person on the other end. As if any evidence of his failings could be crushed and vanished by his sheer will. 

His eyes were hazy and his breathes were ragged when he stopped grinding it into the cement. "Fuck you, Tony." Clint whispered fully aware no one could hear it but himself; pathetic as always. "You piece of shit."

He was inspecting the broken bits when it went dark. 

•• •• •• ••

Clint watched the soft fuzzy lights spinning above him as he cracked his eyes open.

His head ached and his body felt like it was narrowly held together at the seams. Confused, Clint tried to sort out his status. Could he move? Did he dare try? 

Mechanically he went through the mental checklist of ‘gaining consciousness abruptly after a mission’. Where was he? Why was he here? Was the mission active? Did he call for extraction? Could the op still be salvaged? Was his team okay? 

He blinked, movements groggy as he lifted his hands. An IV. He was in the Shield MedBay then, it appeared. Probably because he was injured — he felt injured for sure. He was too far from the site to be concerned about the status of the mission and he didn’t recall every reaching out to Communications for an extraction. 

Not a SHIELD op, an Avengers assignment. 

Fuck, were they okay?

There was an obnoxious whining noise mounting up, muffled significantly like someone had tried to lay several thick towels over the machine or...or over his ears. His left arm was sore, bruised with spots of a second degree burns on the outside as he lifted his limbs to ensure they could still move. He relieved to find all four in working order. 

Now how the hell did he wind up here? 

Clint remembered his vantage point on top of a building. An office building. He was hit with a sudden feeling of ground vanishing beneath him, a painfully bright light (not blue, thank God. no one had gotten into his head. he was himself), a horrible noise between a crack and a bang that was louder than anything Clint could ever possibly try and compare it to. 

Slowly, so not to agitate his healing body he reached up to feel the side of his head and his fingertips met with gauze. The whining noise got unbearable and Clint's face screwed up. 

A hand wrapped around his wrist. 

Still heavily sedated old habits were difficult to break. Clint tried to swing around and dislodge his attacker, not taking into account the various injuries he wasn't aware of until they had his entire body protesting in agony. Brown eyes bore down into him seeming panicked. 

Clint counted his pain down to an operational level with a breathing trick he'd been taught by Phil after he took a four story fall and broke his femur. He tried to find a focus like Phil always told him to. The ringing was too much of a distraction however. With significant effort he rolled his eyes up at his attacker's face. 

The goatee was a dead giveaway. Stark was mouthing something at him. Why wasn't Tony speaking? 

The ringing. 

The damn ringing made it impossible to hear anything. Everything was still so hazy. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to draw the pieces of his status together together into a reportable conclusion. 

Clint was in the MedBay, clearly injured. So a mission — the mission with the Avengers and the loud noise and ground falling from under his feet — had not ended well. And as much as Clint hated it, he was not field ready (obviously). 

"Status..." Clint's voice was faraway, distorted and unclear. 

Clint cleared his throat — or tried. He could feel it happening but the ringing was so damn overbearing it consumed any sound. Steve was suddenly standing over him too. Two team members okay. That was good. Steve looked down at him, a worry wrinkle furrowed on his forehead as he also mouthed something at Clint.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be heard. It could have been a 'the walls have ears' moments. Clint tried to gather his bearings, breathing deeply. If he had to escape, could he? A whitecoat came in next and checked the machine by his head. "Ringing," he said, trying to speak over it and the doctor frowned at him. "Turn-turn down the ringing."

The doctor's mouth moved and he got a head shake of refusal. "Doc, I can't hear you until you turn down that fucking ringing."

Clint's head have a nasty throb and was confused, frustrated. "Turn it off man!" 

A hand rested on the back of his hand, warm and familiar. Clint choked a bit as the face swam into focus. No, no, it wasn't possible.

The world was hazy again and the face above him, Phil, smiled sadly as he vanished into the darkness of unconsciousness. "Phil," he tried to say but his voice was so faint with that he doubted anyone else could hear it over the ringing. 

•• •• •• ••

Over the next few days, the ringing faded and when mouths moved Clint could pick muffled sounds were if he leaned far too close to the speaker and angled his right ear toward them. Then they wrote him notes that he couldn't read and that Jarvis could not read to him. 

Clint tried to leave the MedBay four times on a quest to ensure the fever dream had been a product of his overactive mind. They wouldn’t let him leave and can’t even understand why. 

The confusion was as overwhelming as the situation is confusing. He tried to scream once, to see if he was lucid and found voice gone. The doctors reacted as though his voice is functional and stood over him him with a needle while their mouths moved and their eyes are bright with something damn near pity.

The realization did not come all at once. Through hazy thoughts, piecing together all the consistencies Clint realized he had sustained severe damage to his hearing. Then he felt dumb for not realizing it sooner. It made more sense than the drug induced conspiracies of SHIELD stealing his voice. 

Clint wanted the fevered hallucination back. Seeing Phil's face had been incredible. It looked so similar to how he remembered it. Maybe a bit tired but mostly concerned. Clint watched the mouth's move and tried to guess what they were saying.

The ringing faded and the silence was lonely. Even the muffled sound he did get from his right ear was not enough to hear those around him. They did two surgeries but it didn’t get better.

Steve came every day. Some days he talked to Clint who could not hear him, but usually he sat down, squeezed Clint's shoulder and read.  
The next time Steve visited, he had the book tucked under his arm and made a strange gesture at Clint. Clint blinked up at him and then rolled away. He wanted to tell Steve to stop coming, to just sever the tie because he was dead weight now. The team wouldn’t want him and SHIELD still refused to release him (or at least whenever he tried to walk out they brought him back). 

Clint didn't expect the super soldier to forcibly roll him over. His body ached a bit still so he gave Steve his ugliest look. 

Not seeming very fazed by it, Steve's mouth moved and he made the gesture again. He was saying the same word, Clint realized. He stopped staring at the Captain's mouth and instead at his hand. He had his thumb folded against his palm, fingers together and his index finger rested against his forehead. He moved it outward, paused and did it again.

Maybe Steve was concussed and that was why he was wasting his time around Clint. He was stuck in medical too so he had nothing better to do. That made sense. 

Steve stubbornly repeated it until Clint grew agitated and said, "fuck off". His voice still worked, he could feel the vibrations in his throat. 

Steve paused and then he smirked. He shook his head, a clear no. He did it again and again and again. Then he pointed at Clint, clearly intending for him to repeat it. Clint did, if only to get Steve to quit it.

Steve looked awfully triumphant and Clint got the sinking suspicion he had lost the strange game in some way. Steve squeezed his sore shoulder again and settled down in the chair beside the bed, opening his book. 

Clint felt truly lost in that moment. The nurse had turned on the TV across from the bed, words running beneath the picture. Clint couldn't fucking read so the storyline was lacking. He put it on the cooking station. The food looked good and he didn't need to hear what they were saying when he watched the ingredients go in. 

Phil had cooked once, when Clint moved into the on-base apartment. The take out containers had personally offended him so he brought Clint to an outside market and introduced him to a world beyond greasy food trucks and styrofoam containers. 

Clint remembered how loud it had been and is throat constricted. He wished he'd appreciated it more than, the buzz of so many people, the swell of sound... 

Bruce has stopped in once or twice. Natasha hadn't visited. Tony was probably laughing it up at the Tower, hunting eagerly for Clint’s replacement. Someone smart enough to belong and fit in. That was fine, Clint told himself. He didn't actually care. When Steve's other demands finally came up, he rose to his feet and tapped impatiently at Clint's shoulder. 

Clint ripped his eyes away from a cut of beef (maybe pork?) the lady on screen was rubbing down with a salt and seasoning mixture. Steve held his hand up by his head and close it twice, thumb pointing out. 

Yup. Definitely concussed.

Steve finally left after Clint copied the motion. Clint spent the evening staring at the TV and trying not to think about the fact that he wouldn't ever be able to properly communicate with anyone again. Even if he wanted to learn to read, it was impossible now. 

Eventually the nurse turned it off despite Clint’s protests. Clint stared up at the ceiling and thought about those cold hungry nights beneath the trailer hiding from Trick Shot because the man always wanted to test his skills and if Clint failed to perform, failed to hit that target perfectly, he showed no mercy.

Sometimes when he was particularly hurting he would imagine how much better it would have been if he simply didn't exist. Those thoughts came circling back around, no longer an child's absent imaginations but a man considering formulating a plan. He wouldn't live like this, in world so empty and quiet. He couldn't.

No. He didn’t want to go down that path. He could figure out a way around this. He always did. 

Things used to work out for Clint and they could still. Maybe.

•• •• •• ••

Clint tried to find new ways to pass the time between Steve showing up, the nurse’s and doctors mouthing things at him, and watching television. 

At first he’d throw back the pills and fold the paper cups into little arrow heads he stacked neatly beside him. Then, on the day he’d collected ten, flicked them at Steve while he had his nose buried in the book. 

They bounced off his forehead — bam, bam, bam — Clint’s aim still unmatched even with him out of practice. After the third one Steve mouthed a clear “Stop”. Clint hit him in the nose with the next one and while Steve was gathering the tiny folds of paper decided on a new goal: he’d learn to read lips. He’d been working on it before, had a good foundation from his work in espionage and as a sniper. 

Steve handed them back to him warily and Clint grinned brightly at him before turning his attention to the screen. He focused more on the mouths around him, the familiar movements and remembering how they sounded when he could hear them. It felt foolish to be so wistful of a relatively new condition but he couldn’t help it. By the day he was folding his thirty-second arrow head he was pretty confident in his skills.

Clint still couldn’t hear but still, Clint was managing.

•• •• •• ••

Steve sat stiffly on the workshop stool. 

His back was starting to ache he'd been there so long. Tony was still stubbornly refusing to pay him any mind but the fact Tony actually let Steve into the lab was a step in the right direction. By Steve's calculations Tony had been in here for the last thirty seven hours. Tony had taken two bathroom breaks and a dozen trips to the little a la carte area he’d had set up especially for days like this. 

It made Steve crazy that this was how Tony chose to work through his issues but it also made his heart ache that he was in this much pain.

He had been working on the cars since they got back from the hospital but that project had been abruptly abandoned about six hours ago. Tony had muttered to himself for the good portion of an hour while moving screens in the air around him. Steve wasn't sure what to say to comfort him beyond the standard 'it's okay' and 'it's not your fault'. 

Clint was alive, they should all be thankful for that. He was injured but he would recover — not his hearing, and he'd have some scars to tell the story with — but he would survive it. 

"Tony." Steve spoke softly, pleading with him without having to say the words. Please don’t run yourself down over this. Please come to bed. Please don’t do this.

"I'm busy Rogers, I already told you that. If you wanna hang out here, fine. But I need quiet." Tony's face looked increasingly sullen, dark bags of exhaustion beneath each eye. The plates Steve had brought down ended up in the trash, untouched. "I just need to focus."

The stubborn piece of Steve that just wouldn't go away no matter how many proverbs he repeated or how much he told himself to pick his battles somehow still overpowered his best judgment. "Tony you're being a little ridiculous. Give it a rest for the night." Steve even used his Captain America tone. 

Truthfully it embarrassed him to do it. It was like he was a kid again in a church play reciting words of a character he clearly wasn’t. 

However Tony found something about it to be comforting or at least arousing if their after-mission and post-argument romps were any evidence. It was enough to get Tony to pause and then give him a filthy look. 

"Don't distract me or I'll kick you out."

Unbelievable. 

Everyone was worried about Clint but no one else was being an ass about it. Steve was about ready to tell Tony that when he watched him muffle a yawn into his elbow and blink blearily at the soft blue display floating there. 

Steve wasn't going to enable him. He wasn't, he told himself firmly. Stephen Grant Rogers do not help him run himself into the ground.

But his feet moved without his permission and he found himself at the complex espresso machine full of knobs and gadgets that somehow spat out the teeniest amount of caffeinated liquid imaginable.

You are a weak man, he told himself with deep seated disgust. 

Tony had shown him a hundred times how to work it but he found himself faltering at which button would actually make the coffee come out. 

Was it the little chrome looking one or the silver lever? 

It was the chrome button, he recalled, because the lever made sweet frothy foam. Steve almost smiled as he remembered that evening. 

Tony had been hellbent on improving the brake system on his suit and Steve realized it had nothing to do with the suit and everything to do with some board decision Pepper made without talking to him. Steve had given up trying to get him to abandon the task and come to bed, instead volunteering to help. He probably just made things take longer but the little lines of conflict around Tony's mouth had softened until he had that devilishly handsome grin Steve had fallen for back. 

When the braking system was complete Tony had tugged him over the machine and managed to coerce the machine into making the best hot cocoa he'd ever had. Steve could still smell that night in his memories. It smelled like chocolate and diesel and the chemical sweetness of brake fluid on Tony's hands but mostly it smelled of happiness. 

He would have to help Tony work through this too, somehow, although there was a lot he didn't know how to say.

He carried the teeny cup to Tony who looked annoyed at the interruption before he noticed the coffee. "Thanks." 

Tony tossed back Steve's hard work in a single gulp and set the little cup aside going back to his holograms. The robot with the claw immediately came over and picked it bringing it to the little fish return bin. Up close Steve could see that there was something small and kidney shaped. 

"What are you working on?" Steve achieved sounding curious and not at all tired.

"A thing." Tony pinched the image and it vanished. "Maybe, sort of."

"A thing," Steve repeated as Tony strolled toward the other end of his work bench, opening up an actual pad of paper. Something tangible was a sight for sore eyes. "Maybe, sort of?"

"That's what I said, Steve." Tony tore the piece of paper out and held it out to Steve. "Please."

Steve glanced at the spidery handwriting and sighed. "If I get you take out, can we talk when I come back? Please."

Tony looked thoughtfully at him and hope swelled up inside Steve. Then he took back the paper and turned away briskly. "Forget it. I'll just have them deliver. I'm busy Steve. You don't see me bothering you while you're in the gym."

Steve tried to hide how much that hurt. "So that's what I'm doing? Bothering you?"

"Don't do this. Please.” Tony’s eyes drifted shut before he said quietly, “It was my fault Steve.”

He wanted to deny it but perhaps, if Clint hadn’t been distracted by the bickering — by Tony harping on the thing he swore to Steve he wouldn’t bring up again, especially in the field — Clint might have seen the Extremis moving in on him. 

But maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Steve wasn’t one for assumptions when it came to the ‘what ifs’ of saving friends. It would just tear him up inside over something be couldn’t do a damned thing about. 

Neither of those things would achieve comforting Tony so Steve just folded him against his chest firmly, still careful of the small genius who thought he was so much tougher than he truly was. He tolerated it for a few moments and when he began to elbow out of the hold Steve obediently released him. The color working up Tony’s cheeks felt like a victory. Just getting him to talk was a victory for sure. 

“The only important thing is that he’ll recover.”

“He won’t.” Tony turned away completely voice sharp. “90 percent of his hearing is gone and the bit that’s left isn’t enough to help him. He can’t read or write a goddamn word, Rogers.”

“Tony.”

“I checked Jarvis’ diagnostics and Barton uses him to verbalize everything. His hearing was literally his connection to the world. Can you imagine if you’re sole communication was completely cut off?” 

Tony was pulling up more holograms now while Steve cringed empathetically. It didn’t cross his mind to think of it in that regard. Maybe Clint’s moodiness was more than him being cooped up. He had come into a world hardly understanding the vocabulary but he had known enough. 

“Hell, just because those morons at SHIELD think it’s a complete loss cause doesn’t mean that I do.”

“What do you mean?” 

Steve didn’t remember Maria mentioning that they weren’t still actively trying to correct it. Actually he didn’t remember being told how much of Clint’s hearing was considered lost. ‘A majority’ was the summary the team got. Natasha has left without being dismissed. 

Tony glanced over his shoulder at Steve, a tired smile on his face. “I may have hacked into Barton’s medical files.”

“Tony that’s private!”

“I said I’d take care of my team, I’m going to do that.” Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, I doubt our local illiterate archer will be all that upset once these babies are done.”

Steve was still reeling from Tony’s casual admittance of a total privacy invasion and that he had shouldered the responsibility. 

“What things?” Steve already regretting asking. 

Tony presented Steve with a blown up holographic image he could hardly decipher much yet view as an object. 

“Hearing aids, Stark-style.” Tony clarified at Steve obvious lack of comprehension, pleased as punch. He didn’t seem to notice the downward twitch of Steve’s mouth. “I’ll fix him.”

“He’s not yours to fix. In fact you shouldn’t even know about this.” How was their team supposed to trust each other when no one could respect privacy? “This isn’t okay.”

“It's not always that black and white Rogers.” Tony seemed annoyed again. “Barton hid the fact he couldn’t read years. I figure we skip the ‘woe is me’ bullshit and just give him these to kick him back into gear.”

“This isn’t okay.” Steve repeated. “Christ Tony, you really think it’s okay to ignore laws because you think you have good intentions?”

Tony scoffed. “You’re one to talk. How many times did you illegally try to enlist in army?”

Steve couldn’t help the way his jaw shut and his chest pushed out. It was his ‘Red-White-and-Blue-Righteous-Stance’ according to Tony. “That was — ”

“Different?” Tony cut in. “Because you were doing the right thing? Because you wanted to help?”

Steve did falter at that because Tony had a point. Perhaps Steve wasn’t the one to lecture the importance of following rules. Still, he never illegally accessed anyone else’s medical records. “Just because you’re capable of doing something doesn’t give you the right to. It doesn’t make it the right thing to do.” Steve got a look from Tony that made it clear he wasn’t interested in his opinion on the matter. “Just know that I think you’re better than this and I don’t condone or support what you’re doing.”

“Noted Steve. And while I’m solving the issue, you go ahead and keep teaching Barton ASL — I’m sure he totally gets what you’re doing seeing as it relies heavily on spelling which he can’t do.”

Steve‘s teeth were grinding again. “I’m trying to help him.”

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing here Rogers?” Tony threw his hands up and glared at Steve. 

Without thinking Steve immediately retorted, “Trying to get rid of the guilt rather than addressing the actual problem. Once again, you’re missing the principle.”

•• •• •• ••

Clint had nearly forgotten about the fevered dream until that dream stepped into the room.

The suit was just as he remembered it, finely tailored the lines of Phil’s body. Professional, stiff and unwavering in stature but a slight smile on his thin lips that put Clint, who had significant difficulty with authority when he was initially recruited to SHIELD, at ease. 

Clint dropped his cup of juice on the bed and paid no mind the cold liquid soaking his lap and bedding. His jaw was slack and his mind whirled. His stomach dropped to the floor and his heart leapt up to his throat.

“Phil.” 

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. 

Clint felt faint, like he hadn’t eaten and had pushed himself too far and this was it, he was gonna fall, just keel over and die and oh man, Trick Shot was gonna kick his ass if he fell right now so just keep your eyes open Clint, c’mon Clint... 

Groggily Clint peeled his eyes open. Steve was in the chair by the bed, book tucked under his arm but his face was tight and distressed. There was a bit of black to the side of him and Clint look, with great effort at Nat. She was wearing mission clothing. Relief poured through Clint, filling all those teeny crevices full of darkness and silence with hope. Maybe she didn’t hate him because he was stupid. There was a chance she had been away on an op and that was why she hadn’t visited.

Then, he remembered. 

He looked around wildly for confirmation that it had been a dream and instead locked eyes on...a ghost? A zombie. A dead man walking and talking to Tony. 

Stark was here too, he thought in displeasure. 

It struck him abruptly that Phil was talking and Clint could hear him. Phil was not a zombie but an angel with supernatural healing abilities.

“ — probably not exactly how you imagined, Tony. I understand your concerns.”

“I highly doubt that,” Tony rolled his eyes dramatically. Or maybe that was just Tony. Everything he did had that Stark grandeur to it, according to Nat.

Oh yeah, Nat was here. Phil was here. Stark was here. Steve had his book. 

Christ his thoughts ran through his brain like water through a sieve. A sedative, he figured, probably why he hadn’t passed out again. 

“Phil.” His throat hurt, vocal cords rubbing against each other like sandpaper. “Is it actually you?”

 

“It is Clint.” Immediately attention was him. Phil was an excellent handler, always so attentive on anything that could possibly hinder his asset. “How are you feeling?”

How was he feeling? Status update, mental checklist — most answers were applicable. 

Clint’s status. He had to focus. He was…well, sore. Kind of tired. A bit stir crazy. Most definitely overmedicated.

“Like I’m talking to a man who’s funeral I went to.”

Yes, yes that was good. Clint gave himself a pat on the back. It was a good summary for someone illiterate — even Stark had to admit that. 

“Yes, I suspect you have some questions. Your friends just finished their own interrogation. I believe I passed.” 

Phil was funny, Clint thought with a small smile drifting across his face. Phil was funny when he wanted to be. When he was frowning at Clint for not listening or for not being where he was supposed to be or because “the debriefing started twenty minutes ago Agent Barton, tardiness is not acceptable” Phil wasn’t very funny. He was serious.

He was not field ready because he felt like jello and if he was up on a post he’d probably fall off. Not useful.

It was the drugs, he reasoned to himself again. But he could hear. He reached up and touched his ears to feel for the gauze. There was none but good god were his fingers loud. He would be a terribly sniper if he didn’t remember how to keep his fingers quiet though he wasn’t sure if it was an issue before. 

He almost asked — Phil gave excellent positive criticism. Three rights for every wrong was his policy. But he didn’t get a chance.

A hand hooked on his wrist which did not dissolve like jello would have so he was still a whole person. He didn’t have a reason to say he wasn’t field read now. He probably wouldn’t fall off his post because his bones were gone. They were there. Fuck, whatever they gave him was strong. 

The hand pushed his arm against the bed with ease. It was bony, small, and shaky with too much caffeine or maybe in desperate need of a drink. The shaking could have been caused by the appearance of a dead person. 

When did Stark get so strong? When did Clint get so weak? Maybe his muscles had turned to goop. He’d been in the bed long enough. That was medical’s fault though, not Clint’s. He’d tell Phil and Phil would tell Fury and they wouldn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that… 

Status. He had to give a status. No, Clint had done that already. Before Tony got strong. Did he have the serum? Could Steve share? Maybe they made more. Would they give it to Clint or was that a waste because he was so fucking stupid and he was made out of goop. 

“Don’t touch them Barton. I didn’t toss fifty hours of my life into those for your clumsy mitts to bust them. Got it?” Tony snapped.

Clint was fairly certain he had something to say to Stark but the as soon as he got his brain around the slippery concept, it was gone. Like condensation down the outside of a glass of ice water, popping into his subconscious where he could try and find it later muddled around all his questions about Natasha, and Steve’s book and weird gestures and his ears and if the serum could turn solid again. 

“Phil.” he said again because Clint like saying his name to his face. 

His eyes were warm and bright. He was there, face in sharp detail. HD, high definition. Like a billion times better than the old box TV he had the in the trailer he and Barney used to sit in front of. 

Clint had to admit Phil was quite put together for a dead man. There was no dirt on his suit so this probably wasn’t the start to the zombie apocalypse. 

Then again first name suddenly felt so personal though because he had been dead and Clint stood there and watched the coffin go down and cried later, just that once and it was okay because no one saw. He was good agent though. Phil had to know that. 

“Agent Coulson, sir?”

“Yes Agent Barton?”

“What the actual fuck was that dying thing you did?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part to come soon. I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked it — second part to come soon!


End file.
